Five Dates
by workerbee73
Summary: Five Dates Clint Barton and Natasha Romanoff Absolutely, Positively Did Not Go On ... and One They Did. The banter-laden, UST-filled adventures of two assassins in love. And denial.
1. Chapter 1

**#1: Memphis, Tennessee**

"Does it have to be fried?"

"It's country _fried_ steak. That's the point. Otherwise it would just be steak."

"I don't understand the American obsession with frying everything."

"It's good. Not all of us can survive on protein shakes, strong tea and straight vodka."

"And the gravy," Natasha continued, ignoring him. "Why the gravy?"

"Because they just go together. I mean, gravy is practically its own food group as far as I'm con—"

"—same with the need to cover everything with cheese—"

"It's culture godammit!" Clint exclaimed, exasperated. "I'm trying to share my culture with you. Dive bars. Diners. Obnoxious grease traps. Stuff that I like."

She arched one eyebrow. "Fine. You like fried foods and restaurants with fake wood-paneled walls and waitresses that call you 'honey.' Noted."

He pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a longsuffering sigh. "Look—we've been partners over a year now and all I'm saying is that maybe it's time we tried to, you know, actually get to know each other."

"I know plenty," she replied, crossing her arms. "You prefer an older Baretta sidearm with the 9mm detachable clip instead of a semiautomatic option, you always gauge your sightlines from the left, you tend to lead with a right hook in a close fight and next to a bow and arrow you're most comfortable with a knife."

"Wow. Well thank you for that thoroughly accurate and clinical assessment, Agent Romanoff. Remind me to award you the Boy Scout Good Partnership badge sometime."

"What else to do I need to know?"

"Just eat the goddamned steak."

She did. "And this isn't culture," she muttered around a mouthful of mashed potatoes and the ubiquitous gravy.

"Huh?"

"It's not culture. Culture is Verdi and Cezanne and the ruins at Pompeii."

He leaned back in his chair. "Oh. I get it. You're one of _those_ people."

"One of what?"

"One of those art snob people who thinks that culture has to be old and dead and highbrow. I bet you even like opera too."

She stayed quiet.

"Oh so you do." He seemed irritatingly pleased with this knowledge.

"So what?"

"Oh nothing."

"I bet you loathe it."

"In fact I do. If I want to get yodeled at all evening, I'd get good and liquored up and wander over to Ms. Myra's Karaoke Emporium down the street."

"Classy, Barton."

He raised his bottle of High Life and gave her an annoyingly charming grin. "I do my best, darlin'."

"Philistine."

"Princess."

"Hick."

"Snob. And this is the last time I'm taking you out to dinner."

"Promise?"


	2. Chapter 2

**#2: Frankfurt, Germany**

"Stop fidgeting."

"I feel like a damn penguin."

"You look fine."

Actually _fine _was a gross understatement. He looked disconcertingly attractive. Her partner of two-and-a-half years was her supposed date to a museum gala with the cover that they were a newlywed couple vaguely related to the hosting patron. In reality they were on the trail of an arms dealer who was scheduled to make an appearance that night.

It was such an eyeroll worthy cover story that Nat just snickered and handed Clint the memo that had been sent over earlier that day. He'd taken one look at it, then at her, then raised an eyebrow.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me."

"They want you to dress up too," she added, giving him a sweetly triumphant smile.

It was a bit of a shock though. Not that they hadn't done missions like this before; it was just that she had always played the ground game solo while he'd done what he'd always done—stay up high and out of sight and hold back until needed. It was kind of how their partnership worked, and it was a damn good partnership too, she thought.

But Coulson figured they could cover more ground together and so here they were, strolling hand in hand pretending to be deeply in love (and keeping an eye out for their mark). She leaned against Barton and curled her fingers around his bicep, looking every bit the besotted wife, playing her part perfectly. Well, perfectly except for Clint's constant litany of complaints. You'd have thought he pulled a three-month assignment in Siberia instead of having to spend one night cozying up to her, and frankly, she was starting to get annoyed. She knew damn well she was attractive, and knew exactly what kind of effect she had on men. But Clint always seemed impervious to that and most of the time, she appreciated it—liked it in fact—but tonight it just made her irritable. Was she really so bad to spend an evening with?

They walked outside into the museum's garden with its long narrow rows of hedges designed like an old-fashioned maze.

"You see him out here?" Clint asked.

"I saw the bodyguards; he can't be far behind. This way," she said, leading him down a dimly lit path.

"God, I hate these things," Clint said, tugging at the neckline of his starched white dress shirt.

"I'd never guess."

"Oh shut it. We weren't all born walking in four-inch heels and ball gowns."

"But now I kind of want to see that. Next mission you should be on ground duty. In full drag."

"Funny."

"Oh I certainly think it would be. And I'd be three stories up with the scope and get to ogle _your _ass for a change."

Clint just glared at her.

"Relax, Barton, it was a joke. God you're tightly wound tonight," she muttered.

"All I'm saying is that if I ever decide to ogle your ass, you'll know it." He shrugged. "I just don't like this stuff."

"Oh, I forgot—you're allergic to culture."

"Well I'm certainly allergic to this goddamn tuxedo."

"Will you shut up if I promise to get you out of it later?"

He glared again and physically steered her around the next corner. "Move," he ordered, his focus back on the mission. They were starting to come out of the maze and there was a courtyard in the distance that led down to a series of fountains and away from the museum.

"I still don't see anything," he said. "I wonder if we took a wrong turn. Shit—"

"What now?"

"This stupid tie is coming undone again."

"Let me see—"

"I can do it—"

"Will you stop?" Natasha batted his hands away and grabbed the lapels of his collar to pull him in close. "Just hold still for one damn minute and I'll fix it."

He gave her the grumpiest look imaginable but said nothing.

"You can be such a pain in the ass sometimes." She leaned up and undid his tie completely before carefully re-knotting it.

"It's part of my charm."

It was a typical reply, along with the typical swagger, but he also sounded distracted. She looked up to see what it was and found him looking very intently at her. For a second, Natasha forgot to breathe. When had their faces gotten so close together?

She scrambled for a retort. "Yeah, well, I..."

Suddenly she felt of pair of very strong, very familiar arms pick her up and press her against a nearby hedge.

"Hey what—"

"Shhhhh." Clint pressed a finger against her lips. "The mark is at ten o'clock, along with some company. You see?"

She peeked over his shoulder until she saw the group of men about 30 yards away. "Got it." Instinctively, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pulled him close, so to any outside observer it would look as if they'd found more interesting things to do. Soon there was no space between them at all.

"He's one the phone," she said quietly.

"Can you hear him?"

"No, but I can see his lips."

"Turn around then and let me—"

"No. He's speaking in German. I got this."

She wrapped one had around the back of his neck to pulled his head gently to the side so she could get a better view. They were partially concealed by the shadows at the entry of the maze, but they could still be seen from a distance. She ran her lips down the side of his neck as she concentrated on the scene unfolding on the other side of the fountain and felt Clint stiffen underneath her touch.

"Uh, Nat?..." he began.

"Just making it convincing in case anyone glances over," she whispered. "You might at least pretend you're not completely opposed to what's happening."

She felt those arms tighten around her waist and his hands slide up the length of her back. He tilted his head in the process, resting it against her shoulder and giving her a better view, his breath warm against her neck. She barely suppressed a shiver.

"Better?" His voice sounded rougher than usual.

"Not bad," she replied, running a hand under his jacket and across the broad expanse of his back.

That move set off a strange game of one-upmanship. She raked her nails across the base of his neck; he ran his hands through her hair. She nipped at his earlobe; he bit softly at the top of her shoulder. She hiked a leg up against him; he wrapped a possessive hand around her knee and anchored it against his hip. She moved, he countered, and it was taking all her concentration to focus on the man 30 yards away and not the man right in front of her.

Natasha knew how to control her breathing, knew how to fake it with the best of them; hell, she was practically raised knowing how to bring a man to his knees without even breaking a sweat. But there was no faking here. She was damn near feeling lightheaded and honest-to-god weak in the knees.

"How's it going?" Clint whispered, his lips lingering against her ear much longer than was absolutely necessary.

"Can't—see so well," she mumbled, trying to get her footing back. "A little help?"

It took a second before he understood what she was asking, and for a moment, the look on his face could best be described as fear. She grabbed his hands and placed them on her ass. "Up."

He snapped into action and lifted her easily as she wrapped her legs around his waist. The view up here was much better—_and incredibly nice_, a baser part of her brain added. She quickly shut down that line of thought and held still, her arms around his neck and all her concentration fixed across the courtyard.

"You got it?" he asked after a few minutes.

"Yeah. Time, date, location—everything." Legs still wound around him, she leaned back just enough to take the cell phone out of Clint's jacket pocket and type a quick message to headquarters. Within seconds there was a beep back. She quickly read it and put the phone away.

"We're done for tonight. Intercept at 0700 tomorrow."

"Are we clear?"

She checked the area around the fountain, which was empty now. "Yes."

He moved away so fast he nearly dropped her. All that cool cowboy façade was gone, and she would later swear he was panting just a bit. "Okay. Great. Let's go see those paintings."

"You mean sculptures," she said, scrambling to get her balance back.

"Sculptures, paintings, paper mache piñatas—sounds awesome; let's go."

He took off for the main building at lightning speed and she nearly tripped on the gravel path trying to keep up with him.

"Never had you pegged as an art lover, Barton."

"Who, me? Can't get enough. You think they've got bourbon in there?"

Nat smiled to herself and followed him back inside. The air from the gallery washed over her face, cooling her cheeks in the process.

She secretly hoped they had an ample supply of vodka too.


	3. Chapter 3

**#3: New York, New York**

"God I'm bored."

They'd been sitting there for hours now, each perched on a separate rooftop in Lower Manhattan, waiting for something—anything—to happen. Intel said there was drug cartel with HYDRA links that was looking to move more than just cocaine, but this was a watch and wait job. No ground work here; this was all Clint's world.

She heard a soft chuckle in her ear. "Aww, it's not that bad."

"No, seriously, I don't know how you do this all day. How can you stand not being in the middle of things?"

"It's all in how you handle your time. For instance, if you find something worth looking at..."

She didn't have to glance over to the neighboring skyscraper to know his scope was trained on her. She smiled despite herself. "Knock it off, Barton."

"Just having some fun."

He could be a shameless flirt sometimes, but that was just part of who they were. Like the banter and the ribbing and the unflinching loyalty. Clint had been her partner for four years now, and it was hard to believe it had been that long when it felt like she'd joined SHIELD only yesterday, following him home on a whim and a dare and the idea that maybe there was more to life than an endless sea of red.

Nevertheless, it _had _been four years. And nearly two months since she'd seen him last. They had made quite a name for themselves, and increasingly become Fury's go-to agents when words like "impossible" or "out of the question" were involved. They were also increasingly split up. There was always another job, and more and more their skill sets were required in multiple places at once. So the missions together became less frequent, to the point where Nat found herself wishing for the days when it was just the two of them in whatever corner of the world that needed saving at that particular moment.

But nothing could last forever she supposed, tracing an idle fingertip across the roof's edge.

"You look sad."

Realizing he was still watching her, she shook it off. "You should keep your eyes on the mission."

"I can do two things at once. What's up?"

"Nothing."

"Aww, come on. You know I'm here to listen. You been missing me?" he drawled. "Poor Agent Romanoff, all alone out there in the world—"

"You wish."

"I'm just saying, it's an understandable predicament. I'm quite the catch, you know. Impossible to get over."

"And still a pain in the ass."

"Well some things never change." She could hear the grin in his voice.

"I'd kill for caffeine right now," she muttered.

"Didn't you have like eight cups of tea already?"

"Yeah but I'm out."

"Shouldn't be too much longer."

As if on cue, her phone beeped. It was Coulson. _Lead's gone cold. We'll try again tomorrow._

"You get that?"

"Yes. Thank God. I'm getting out of here."

"What, so soon?"

"It's been 8 hours, Barton. I want a mug of something hot, a glass of something cold, and a bath—in that order."

"Stay. I know a great place for coffee."

"Where?"

He answered with an arrow embedded in the concrete wall six feet to her left, some kind of grappling hook with a rope attached to the end. After a few seconds the rope was pulled taut, and seconds after that he flew past her on a zip line to land gracefully on her rooftop.

"Showoff."

He gave her a lazy wink. "Can't help myself sometimes."

"So where are we going?"

He pointed to a highrise on the right. Nat headed for the door.

"No—not that way."

"How else do you expect..." her voice trailed off when she saw what he was planning. He fired another arrow with a hook and a rope attached to it. It landed over and up, several stories above where they stood.

"Oh no."

"You up for a little Tarzan action?"

"No way."

"What's the matter? Scared? I promise I won't let go." He grinned and held out his hand.

Against all better judgment, she reached out and took it.

"This is insane."

"Nah. Redecorating Fury's office with Hello Kitty memorabilia is insane. This is just good old-fashioned fun. Hang on."

She might—_might—_have let out a slightly undignified noise when he pulled her in close and sent them careening off the edge, but it was short-lived because soon they were flying, gliding effortlessly through the air and before she knew it, he had deposited them on top of the neighboring building. They were standing on some kind of lower level pavillion, still about ten stories up, and there was a glass door leading inside.

"Wait here," he said, and disappeared through it. He came back a few minutes later, a well sealed, well-insulated paper cup in each hand. "There's a pretty good restaurant three floors down," he replied, answering her unspoken question. "Didn't trust their taste in tea, so I'm afraid it's just coffee. Can you hold these?"

She took the two cups. "We're going somewhere else?"

He pointed upwards and took out two arrows, each with a complicated hook and anchor mechanism of some kind.

"You're like a walking Swiss Army knife sometimes."

"I think that might be the sweetest thing you've ever said to me."

Nat just rolled her eyes.

Clint took careful aim and released the arrows, one after the other, landing in a spot too far up for her to see. There were ropes attached to each, and he tied one around her waist with a careful series of knots, and attached the other one to a row of loops and catches on his vest.

"If you'll be so kind as to hang on to those," he said, nodding toward the drinks, "I'll handle the rest." He swung his bow over his head, wrapped his arms around her, and hit a switch on his belt. All at once the ground beneath them disappeared as they were pulled straight up the side of the building, past rows of concrete and windows and up up into the fading dusk and the city skyline. The view was unbelievable.

"You like?" Clint wasn't looking anywhere except at her.

"You trying to impress me, Barton?"

"If I was—would you be impressed?"

Before she had a chance to answer, the pulley mechanism halted, and he levered their weight to pull them over the edge of the small alcove carved into the building as a decorative facet. It wasn't more than six feet across hemmed in by a small retaining wall, but the view was amazing.

Suddenly an uneasy thought struck her. "Clint, is this like..." she began hesitantly, "a date?"

He rolled his eyes. "Don't flatter yourself. Besides, I suspect your idea of a date would be chock full of culture."

She grinned. "There might even be opera involved."

"God save us all."

Briefly Nat looked at where they'd come from. "Do we have to rappel back down to get out of here?"

Clint shook his head. "Nah. You're a novice, so I'll go easy on you." He nodded towards a small hatch in the concrete. "There's an access shaft that leads back inside."

He sat down and took the coffee out of her hands and she sat down next to him.

"How have you been?" he asked.

"Good. You?"

"I hear Hong Kong went well."

"It did. I heard the same about Buenos Aires. Nice touch with the sheepdog, by the way."

He laughed, the sound deep and honest and hitting her like a breath of fresh air. "That was not my fault."

"Oh I'm sure. Just like in Warsaw when the entire Berlin Philharmonic just happened to be—"

"Okay so that one _was _my fault." He laughed and she smiled and they sat in comfortable silence for a few moments, just remembering.

"It's not the same now is it?" His voice sounded sad.

"Not so much."

"It's good to see you, Tasha," he said quietly, and she couldn't help but look over at him, the softness of his eyes, the way the fading sunlight played across a face that was just as familiar as her own.

"You too."

The silence stretched between them, and his gaze took a little too long to pull away.

"Thanks for coming up here," he said. "I'm shipping out soon—thought I might not get to see you before I left."

"Already? You just got back."

"You know how it is," he said, and she nodded because she did. "Fury's got some new project he needs help on. But still, we've got tonight. And it's a helluva good night."

"So it is."

They stayed up there for hours, until the sun had set and the coffee was long gone. A blanket of stars stretched out above them and the bright lights of the city reflected below. They talked, they laughed, they reminisced about old times and traded stories and caught up on everything they'd missed. Then when they ran of words and jokes and stories and news, they just sat there together in perfect companionable silence.

At some point she'd leaned her head against his shoulder and he'd leaned back, wrapping an arm around her waist. Neither of them spoke. It had been ages since Frankfurt and the adolescent awkwardness that used to be there had long faded away; now it was just calm and comfortable and something she didn't quite have a word for. But it felt good and steady and it felt like peace.

"Your hair's shorter," he said, reaching up to run one hand through it.

She shrugged. "Got tired of it getting in the way all the time."

"I like it."

She couldn't explain why she felt so stupidly pleased with this knowledge, but she did. "Yeah, well, it's easier this way."

"Easier?"

"Close call in Bahrain."

"But you're okay?" he asked, his hands coming up to cup her face and bring her eyes to meet his.

"I'm always okay."

He gave her a faint smile but didn't move away. "Yeah. I guess you are." His fingers played back and forth across her cheeks, tracing the edges of her face and he was close—he was so damn close—but she couldn't seem to care. There was something in his eyes right then, in the way he looked at her—something that had always been there but was forever getting pushed aside—banked down and swept under the rug and hidden away but now that look was plain as day and written all over his face. If she had to put a word to it she would have called it longing, but it also felt like so much more and for a second she forgot how to breathe.

And in that moment Nat realized two things: one, that he might be about to kiss her ... and two, that she absolutely wanted him to.

He leaned in a little closer but seemed paralyzed all of the sudden and couldn't close the distance. So she did instead.

It was... it was as if her world was suddenly balanced on the edge of a knife. It was like flying and falling and a perfectly executed _pas de deux_. It was hot and cold and a live wire slipping through her fingers. It singed and burned and she never wanted it to stop.

Apparently, neither did he.

"God—yes—Tasha," he rasped, pulling her closer.

Nat didn't need any more encouragement than that. Brain switched off, she crawled into his lap until she had him pinned against the concrete, devouring him.

Her hands were everywhere—or maybe they were his, she really couldn't tell. All she knew was that right now nothing remotely mattered except getting more of this. More of him. Her fingers began working on the fastenings of his vest, his palms pressed her hips to his, searching for a rhythm and—

_"Agent Romanoff, report."_

Coulson's voice washed over both of them like a bucket of ice water. Natasha scrambled to sit up, flipping open the discarded comm link and stammering a reply.

"Romanoff h-here. Yes, Barton's … with me. Understood. We're on our way."

She flipped the comm link closed, all business now. "New lead on our cartel," she said, not quite meeting Clint's eyes. "We've got somewhere to be."

He was still gasping for air almost as much as she was, but he managed to nod. "Right."

Not saying another word, they gathered their things and made their way down. No time for thought, just back to the mission. The overwhelming part of her was grateful for the distraction, but a tiny part of her just wanted to strangle Phil Coulson.


	4. Chapter 4

**#4: An undisclosed location over the North Atlantic**

"Job well done, guys. Really well done."

They were sitting in Coulson's office for wrap-up and debrief. Not only had they located the drug cartel in question, they'd managed to get close enough to wire them with a host of tracking and surveillance devices that would allow SHIELD to monitor everything they did from now on, which would hopefully lead to more intel on what HYDRA was up to. Natasha had lost count of how long she and Clint had been awake at this point, and while fatigue was starting to set in, it didn't manage to erase any of the memories of the previous night.

Coulson kept talking about the mission and the follow-up and being generally giddy as a schoolgirl about how well things had gone. Nat was only half listening to him, as she and Clint had been trading _I'm-pretending-I'm-not-looking-at-you-but-I-totally-am_ glances for the last half hour. She couldn't get a read on him and she had absolutely no interest in dwelling on the implications of what happened earlier, but the whole scene was stuck in her head on a loop, and she couldn't help but remember every single thing (in vivid detail and with a whole lot of slow motion).

She looked over at Clint. He seemed deep in concentration, but it didn't have anything to do with what Coulson was saying.

"This is precisely the break we've been waiting for," Phil continued, "and to think, we never would have gotten the opportunity if you two hadn't still been in the neighborhood."

She saw Clint glance over out of the corner of her eye but she kept her gaze straight ahead.

"…I mean if you two hadn't been right in the middle of it…"

Clint made a kind of a choked noise.

"…sitting on top of the action…"

Natasha cleared her throat.

"…ready to jump in…"

That was all it took to send Clint over the edge. His shoulders were shaking, and he was practically doubled over in his chair. Nat took one look at him and knew she couldn't hold it together any longer. They both dissolved into a puddle of laughter.

Disbelief was the word that best described the look on Phil Coulson's face at that moment. Not many things could surprise the veteran handler, but the sight of SHIELD's two deadliest agents cracking up like a couple of kids in third period French must have done the trick.

"What?" he began uneasily, and they just laughed harder.

Phil looked over his shoulder, around the room, checked his suit to make sure there was nothing on it. "What the hell is going on?" he demanded.

"Nothing, sir," Clint replied, wiping his eyes. "Just glad you managed to call us before things got too hot and heavy."

Nat laughed even harder and Phil fixed his gaze on her. "I expect this from Barton," he said, pointing a finger in Clint's direction, "but _you_, Romanoff? What has gotten into you?"

She shook her head. "Nothing at all. Like you said, the timing was impeccable."

Clint could barely breathe at this point.

Coulson looked from Nat to Clint then back again and shook his head. "I don't even want to know," he muttered, getting up and heading for the door. "You two should get some rest."

The door shut and the laughter faded, and as good as it felt having a break in the tension, the mood turned serious once they found themselves alone.

Nat had no idea what to do next—no idea in hell. Her brain was racing in a thousand different directions and something kept telling her that she needed to figure out the smart thing to say and then say it, but no such luck. She was all out of smart at the moment.

"Uh, Clint," she began, "about last night..."

"Oh no," he stammered. "Oh God no. Don't—" his face was serious and apprehensive, "don't say it."

"Say what?"

"The whole _'you're great but'_ or _'I hope we can still be friends'_ or _'let's just put this behind us'_…"

"That wasn't what I was going to—"

"Or _'we should just move on_…"

"Clint—"

"_And pretend this never happened'_…"

"Clint!"

He stopped. "What?"

"That wasn't what I was going to say."

He looked confused. "It wasn't?"

"No."

"So what were you going to say?"

She took a deep breath and decided to go for it. Her brain seemed to be on a permanent hiatus right now, but she was past the point of caring.

"I was going to say that maybe … maybe we should do that again sometime."

Watching an expression of complete shock and bewilderment on Clint Barton's face was even more amusing that seeing the same look on Coulson. The fact that she'd managed to do this to both of them in the same day was kind of a personal highlight. She suppressed a grin. He really did look like one of those orangutans trying to work out how to do math problems or use a typewriter.

"Seriously?" he blurted out. "Well yeah—me too," he finally said, managing to get a little bit of composure back.

"Huh?"

"Me too. That's what I was going to say too."

"Really?" She raised an incredulous eyebrow.

"Well obviously," he drawled, the swagger starting to come back. "I mean—clearly—that's the only reasonable course of action."

She smiled despite herself; his face was such a ridiculous combination of sexy and goofy and utterly charming that for the second time in 24 hours, she was tempted to climb on top of him and wipe that smirk off with her hands and mouth until he was begging for mercy. It definitely had the potential to become a habit, she thought distractedly. Before she could act on the impulse, his phone beeped.

"Shit," he muttered. "That's Fury. Look," he began, apology written all over his face, "we still need—but right now I have to—"

"Go," she finished. "It's fine. I'll see you later."

"Yeah." His eyes lingered on her lips, and for a second it looked like he wanted to say—or do—a whole lot more. "Yeah. Definitely," he said, giving her a cocky lopsided grin and disappearing down the hall.

She didn't see him the next day, or the day after that. Just when she thought she must have dreamed the scene on the rooftop and the conversation in Coulson's office, she came home to her apartment that night to find two opera tickets lying on her pillow. A note was attached, written in a large and messy and very familiar scrawl.

**_To answer your inevitable questions, in no particular order:_**

**_Yes- I have clearly lost my mind._**

**_Yes- This is exactly what you think it is._**

**_Yes- I will even suffer through wearing a tuxedo. You better wear one helluva dress to make up for it._**

**_Yes- I'll pick you up at eight._**

**_See you next week, Hotsauce._**

He left for New Mexico the following morning. There was a stupid grin plastered on her face the rest of the day. Even Fury asked if she was feeling all right. The day after that, she boarded a plane for Kiev, for what Coulson promised would be a 24-hour job.

Three days later, she got the call.

She heard Phil's voice on the other end of the line, heard the words "Barton" and "compromised" and for a split second, all she could think about were the tickets lying on her bedside table.

Then her focus snapped back into place and all she could see was red.


	5. Chapter 5

**#5: Middle of Nowhere, Kansas**

He's lost, he's found, she hits him on the head.

World saved, bad guys gone, everything's back to normal.

Or so they tell her.

The farmhouse is quaint and old and in the middle of fucking nowhere. Fury's given her strict instructions to stay there until she's convinced Clint's okay; until he's had time to level out. He doesn't think Clint's a danger, he explains, but they need to make sure he's gotten all this "… out of his system" and since she knows a little something about being a human lab rat (and also because she sure as hell won't let anyone else have the job), they're stuck together in close quarters for the next few weeks.

He won't look at her, barely speaks to her, won't get close. He looks scared and haunted and perpetually waiting for the other shoe to drop. It hurts—the distance, it hurts, she won't pretend that it doesn't—but it's not like she doesn't understand. She understands only too well. One day you're you and the next you're not and you spend every waking moment questioning what you thought was real.

He knows why they're there but he won't talk about it. Won't say much of anything at all. Just pours over the mission reports Fury was stupid enough to let him have, and spends the bulk of his days doing target practice in an unused pasture in the south forty and working on all those arrows and gadgets of his in the old barn next to the house. Some days they go without even seeing each other at all.

It's late July and consistently 96 degrees in the shade, not to mention the humidity. And it's not long before she's gone through every piece of clothing in her duffel bag trying to find something that doesn't feel suffocating. She's built for cold weather but not for heat, and the desperation drives her to finally go through the closets to see what SHIELD managed to stock for this place.

The one in her room is stuffed full of some haute couture vision of what a farmer's wife should look like—all gingham and chambray and denim, a kind of meditation on a fantasy version of Americana heartland. She laughs and shakes her head and reaches for the nearest sundress, as the other options are too damn hot for this weather. Bless Phil Coulson she thinks, bless his love of fashion and his obsessive attention to detail. He must have prepped this place for them as a safehouse long ago. She pretends that it's sweat that stings her eyes when she goes to wipe them and doesn't even try very hard to pretend that it only happens once.

They lost so much in New York. It's too early to say just how much.

Clint makes out a little better, all jeans and t-shirts and plaid checkered buttondowns that only serve to reinforce that rugged cowboy side of him in a way that would be distracting if they were here for any other reason than what they are. But it's distracting anyway. Makes her think about rooftops and opera tickets and messy handwritten notes left on her pillow. About banter and jokes and kisses that left her wanting a whole lot more. He's never brought it up, and she wonders if somehow all that got erased in the wake of Loki and thinks that maybe, on some pragmatic and inherently depressing level, it's probably for the best.

Or maybe he just doesn't want to remember. If that's the case, then neither does she.

"I do remember," he said one morning over coffee. They were the first words he'd spoken directly to her since they arrived that didn't involve things like '_pass the cornflakes_' or '_have you seen my case of modified explosive-tipped rounds?_'

She just looked at him, not sure if she'd heard right.

"Before," he answered. "What happened… before. Between us."

She didn't say a word.

"And it's not that I don't—" he cut himself off. "It just won't work," he said flatly. "It's not the same. _I'm _not the same. I can't risk—"

"Let's drop it, okay?"

"Just trust me when I say that it's the worst idea in the world—"

"Fine." She got up and stormed outside, nearly knocking the screened door off its hinges in the process.

She wished he hadn't remembered at all.

Nat walked out into the blistering summer heat, through field after field, rows tall and green with corn, so tall in fact that one could easily get lost. She'd always had a pretty good sense of direction though, and so she kept going west, away from the house and anything that might lead her back to him. Eventually she found an old dirt road—it really wasn't more than two tracks through a wood and she followed it, not caring where she went. It ended in at a small pond. Small and spring-fed, but deep by the look of it. There was nothing else around and she was so hot at this point she was surprised her skin wasn't partially melted, so without further ado, she stripped off her clothes and jumped in.

The water was cool and still and for a moment she just floated there, able to forget everything else. She stayed until the sun started to duck down into the trees, until blue sky began to fade into orange and until she was ready to face whatever waited for her back at the house.

She didn't bother to dry off, just pulled her dress back on and made her way back. Her walk was interrupted by a noise from the barn. She heard a muffled thud and the sound of metal clattering against the floor.

"Goddamnit!"

It was probably nothing, but she should check and make sure he wasn't lying there bleeding out (not that she'd feel particularly bad if he were, but she was, unfortunately, responsible for keeping him alive at the moment). She walked inside the barn and saw something she was completely unprepared for. It was Clint alright, but far from injured.

He was shirtless, his arms and back and chest covered in grease smudges, rummaging around under the hood of an old pickup truck. He sensed she was there and turned around, wrench in hand, wiping his face with a dirt-smudged forearm. Nat felt a prickle of annoyance and outright hatred. Even the goddamn sweat looked good on him.

Clint looked at her, then back over at the ancient truck. "Needed a project," he explained. "And I wouldn't mind having some transport either."

He did have a point. SHIELD left them with enough food and supplies to last until Christmas, so there really wasn't a need to go anywhere, but they called it cabin fever for a reason.

"Fine," she said. "Just heard a noise and wanted to make sure you weren't dead."

"Nope. Not dead. You're … wet," he said, getting in a long look at what she was and wasn't wearing.

She nearly cracked a smile. She was in fact dripping, her sundress clinging to every curve and nearly transparent. "That's keen eye you got there, Barton. Can't put anything past you."

He shrugged. "So they tell me." He gave her a self-deprecating grin, and she returned it with one of her own. It was far from actually talking, far from the back-and-forth they used to have, but it was something.

A few days later Clint had finished fixing the truck, and they decided to celebrate by going out to see what the local town had to offer. Things weren't exactly normal between them, but they weren't hostile either, and they could manage to carry on a basic conversation without getting in a fight, so it seemed like dinner and a few drinks wouldn't be impossible.

It turned out to be one hell of a good time. Clint won an obscene amount of money from the locals on a few rounds of darts and just before feelings got hurt over the lightened wallets, Nat got on the mechanical bull and effectively diverted the attention of every guy in the room—other than Clint, who was too busy cracking up. They talked some, they joked some, and he damn near flirted with her more than once. He was making fun of the bad country music that was playing when an idea struck her, and she grabbed his hand and led him onto the dance floor.

"Oh no—no way."

"Come on, Barton. Show a girl a good time."

"This music sucks."

"Just drink this—" she handed him her beer bottle, "shut up, and dance with me."

He complied and they swayed to the up tempo song, laughing and even trying out some of the local line dancing moves.

"You're a natural at this," Clint said, looking more like himself than he had since they arrived in Kansas.

"I'm a natural at everything."

He rolled his eyes. "Whatever."

The song ended and another started playing in its place, a slower, sweeter song. Clint didn't move to go back to their table; instead they just swayed in time, arms around each other, almost relaxed. She found herself hypnotized by the bad neon lights and the overwrought lyrics and the man moving against her to the point where this was starting to feel like the best night she'd had in a long time. She leaned into him, moving her arms up his shoulders to gently stroke the back of his neck. She shifted her hips to fit against his and—

He pulled back suddenly, the calm, easygoing look he'd been wearing all night replaced with panic.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Nothing," she replied. "I was just—dancing," she finished lamely. She reached out to pull him close again but the spell was broken, and any trace of the old Clint was washed away.

"No," he said stepping away from her, shaking his head. "I'm sorry, I can't—"

He didn't finish the sentence, just spun on his heel and headed out the door. She followed.

"So you're just going to leave me here?" she practically yelled across the parking lot.

He turned around. "I just—I needed some air, that's all. Go back inside."

"Like hell. What's wrong with you?"

"What's _wrong_?" he asked, the pitch of his voice shooting up. "Seriously?"

"I mean with us—between us. Why won't you come near me?"

"Because it's no good."

"What's no good?"

"This—" he pointed from him to her. "Us. Whatever this is. Fuck, Tasha," he exclaimed, raking a hand through his hair. "When are you going to understand that this isn't going to work?"

She was livid now and inches from his face. "Why? Tell me why."

"I'm too old for you."

She nearly laughed. Clint was over twelve years her senior, but he'd never felt like anything other than an equal and she knew for a fact the he felt the same way. "Bullshit," she replied. "That's never been an issue before."

"Our work," he countered.

"What about it?"

"It's too dangerous."

"And you're just figuring that out now? It's who we are, Clint. The job is who we are. You know you'd never be happy doing anything else."

"But you might get hurt—something might happen to you"

"How would that change anything?" she asked, exasperated. "That's the way it's always been. There will always be risks; we can't do anything about that." She stepped forward and eyed him closely. "You're stalling, Barton. What's this really about?"

"Nothing."

"Tell me, goddamn it!"

He closed the distance between them in a second. His eyes were wild and his hands were gripping her arms with enough force to bruise. "Do you have any idea what Loki wanted me to do to you? When I was under his control, when he—" Clint closed his eyes and turned away, as if it might erase the memory. "He would have made me hurt you—in every way. _Every possible way_. And I wouldn't have been able to do a damn thing about it."

She grabbed him by the front of his shirt, more to shake him out of it than anything else. "I know, Clint. I _know_. He told me. Loki told me."

He let go over her then and stepped back, trying to get his breathing under control. "I still dream about it. Every fucking night. Every night you and me… and then I—" he stopped, not able to say the words out loud. "And I can't stop it," he finished quietly.

The pain twisted his features in a way that made her chest ache. "I never wanted you to know," he said, looking back at her. "But you see now, right? You understand? That's why this won't work. I can't trust myself anymore."

She moved over to where he was and placed her hands on his shoulders. "I trust you," she said, and she did. With every goddamn fiber of her being.

His lips were so close right then that for second it looked as if he might lean down and kiss her, but then the fear and wild look came back and he pushed her away.

"No, Tasha. _No. _It's not going to happen. Don't waste your time on me."

He turned away and got into the truck, leaving her standing in a cloud of dust.

* * *

Nat stayed at the bar after long he'd left, determined to fuck the next remotely attractive man who hit on her. There were three in fact, but when it came time to close the deal she kept seeing Clint's face, so she ended up getting a ride home from a waitress who was getting off her shift.

The house was empty when she got back, and there was no sign of the truck, so she went down to the only place on this godforsaken scrap of dirt she actually liked—her pond. She floated in the cool water, looking up at the moon and the stars and trying so hard not to think about any of it that it was taking every bit of concentration she had. After what must have been hours, she got out and tugged her dress over her head, not even bothering to gather up shoes or underwear. At this point she just didn't care.

She walked back the long path to the house, saw the truck in the drive, and saw an outline of a figure on the front porch swing. It was Clint, looking awful and apparently knocking down one drink after another if the trail of bottles at his feet was any indication.

Nat walked up the steps and surveyed the wreckage in greater detail. "I'm leaving in the morning," she said, being careful to keep any emotion out of her voice. "I called Fury; it's all set up. They'll send another agent to stay nearby until you're ready to come back."

"Leaving?"

She nodded. "Figured I wasn't doing either of us any good here," she said, reaching over to take the bottle out of his hand and down the rest of it.

"I'm sorry about tonight," he said, still not meeting her eyes.

Nat shrugged. "Just forget it. Come tomorrow, I won't be around to bother you anyway." She turned to walk inside.

His hand shot out and grabbed hers. "Don't."

She looked at him long and hard. Even in the dim light his eyes were vivid, but she couldn't read him. His hand was warm and strong where it had captured hers though and she found her resolve starting to waver.

"Clint—"

"Don't," he repeated, voice barely above a whisper. "Don't go."

She didn't really know what he was asking, and she didn't care. All she knew was that she was tired; she was so fucking tired of holding back. She set down the empty bottle that was still in her hand but she didn't pull away. Instead she climbed onto the porch swing until she was sitting in his lap, one knee on either side of his hips. She felt his body tense, but he made no move to leave.

Slowly, carefully, telegraphing every move so as not to spook him, she reached up and began to undo the buttons of his shirt, spreading the fabric wide until she could touch his bare skin. She felt him tense beneath her, felt his breath catch, but he said nothing.

Removing her hands, she began working on the buttons of her sundress all the way to her waist. His eyes followed her fingers down like a lifeline, watching as they pulled the two sides apart and off her shoulders until the fabric pooled around her hips, revealing nothing underneath except warm wet skin, still damp from her swim.

His eyes were fixed on her chest, and she couldn't help but feel a bit of smug satisfaction. All that coiled energy in him was tensed and ready to spring, but he still managed to hold back. He clearly wasn't past the point of wanting her though, if the look on his face and the feel of him against her was any indication.

But he made no move to touch her; he barely even took a breath. She took his hands in hers and guided them up—up along her thighs and her hips, up the sides of her breasts and the tops of her shoulders until they cupped her face. She turned and pressed a kiss to the tip of each calloused finger, along the line of each thumb, kissing the palm of each hand in turn. She kept one of his hands pressed against her face and guided the other down to her neck, her shoulders, her breasts, touching her as she would have touched herself. He was malleable in her hands, he let her guide him and did as she silently asked, a strange blend of desire and wariness on his face, but he made no moves of his own volition.

She guided his hand down lower, slipped it underneath the hem of her dress until it pressed against her, against where she was warm and so wet and oh God all she wanted was for him to touch her. Touch her because he wanted to, not because he was following her lead. Not out of remorse or apology or all the things he felt like he couldn't give her but touch her because he wanted this, because he wanted her just as badly as she wanted him.

Almost as if he was reading her mind, he drew his hand away.

"Tasha, I can't—"

Fear and lust mixed together in his eyes, a strange combination of aroused and terrified but she wasn't going to be deterred. Keeping her gaze steady, she moved his hand back. Then she pressed a kiss into the palm of the hand that was still cupping her face.

"Please," she breathed, begged, whispered. "Please." She didn't have any more words for this.

The fear on his face started to melt away and in its place was something familiar. The longing was back, the single-minded focus, the intensity he always had when it came to her. He looked like himself again, he looked like Clint. Like _her _Clint. His thumb stroked the side of her face where he held her and she damn near wept with relief.

And then his hands began to move.

His fingers moved against her and inside her, finding a rhythm as if they'd done this a hundred times before. He pulled her close, until their foreheads touched, his other hand still holding her face. He made no move to kiss her though—he just watched, eyes fixed on her the entire time, looking at her with something akin to wonder. She bit down on his fingers when she came, a strangled sound coming from her lips, and only then did he lean in and finish the job, mouths fusing and tongues tangling, to the point where she felt like she might just come again on the spot.

Once they started kissing they couldn't seem to stop. Somehow they made it inside the house and up the stairs, mostly with her wrapped around him—he was stuck doing the actual moving part—until they landed on the rickety brass bed in her room. She held on to the delicate filigree bars while he knelt between her legs, arching off the mattress and nearly twisting the metal into an entirely new shape when she came hard against his mouth. Afterwards, sated and wide awake and ready to devour him, she had to plead and threaten and coax him into letting her return the favor. He was still terrified of hurting her, of somehow losing control, so they reached a compromise and she tied him to the bed instead.

He was still mumbling about being worried as she kissed her way down the planes of his chest and along the contours of his stomach, but when her mouth went lower he definitely lost his train of thought—along with the power of speech. They slept in a tired tangle of arms and legs, bodies pressed together in the heat of a summer night.

Nat still packed her bags the next morning, still went out to meet the chopper that would land three fields over and take her back to base. He needed time and space and this was something he had to do on his own. But she would be there when he was ready to come back, and she told him so as she kissed him awake.

"Shouldn't be much longer," he said, running a hand through her hair and moving to pull her down on top of him.

She smiled and wriggled out of his grasp. "Take your time; I'm not going anywhere. I do, however, have a ride to catch."

"See you soon," he said. She leaned down and kissed him one more time.


	6. Chapter 6

**#6: New York, New York**

The opera was Verdi.

The dress was red, low cut, and rendered him speechless for a full two minutes. Natasha took advantage of the moment to straighten his tie, plant a scorching kiss on his lips and inform him that this would, in fact, be a regular occurrence—as she'd just bought them season tickets.

He was too smitten to even argue.

Afterwards, she took him for the best grilled cheeseburger in town, conveniently located at the diviest grease pit she'd ever seen. Stark had been extremely helpful in making suggestions—the man had a near encyclopedic knowledge of junk food that bordered on freakish. Just as she was about to order, Clint leaned over placed a hand on her thigh.

"Get it to go," he said, lips brushing her ear. She did.

They got a taxi but didn't go back to his place. Or hers. Instead they pulled up in front of deserted office building. Nat just raised an eyebrow.

"Trust me," Clint said, and held out his hand. She took it.

They ended up on the roof (of course they ended up on the roof). The view was spectacular and the night was hot but there was a breeze in the air, and you could tell that autumn wasn't far off. She began searching for a place to sit down.

"Nope. Not there yet."

Clint pulled something out of the corner. She took one look at the arrows and the rope and the compound bow he snapped into place and pointed to her very long, very straight, very form-fitting gown. "I'm wearing Balenciaga."

His grin was cocky and charming as hell. "And you look damn fine doing it. Don't worry, Nat, this is kid stuff. I promise—nothing's gonna happen to the dress."

He fired the arrows to a structure on a nearby rooftop, and rigged a zip line within minutes. He wrapped one arm around her waist and handed her the paper bag from earlier.

"Don't forget the cheeseburgers, darlin'." She rolled her eyes, but couldn't hold back a smile.

"Philestine," she muttered, twining her arms around his neck.

"Princess," he countered, pulling her tighter against him.

"Hick." She licked her lower lip.

"Snob." He leaned in for a kiss—and then they were flying.

They landed on the adjacent rooftop, and for second she forgot they were twenty stories in the air. There was grass under her feet and trees all around; it was a rooftop garden that must have been there for ages.

"How did you..." she stammered. "Where?..."

"I did some freelance work a few years ago for the guy who owns it. Security stuff. It's ours for the night."

Nat took a minute to look around. "It's ... amazing," she finally said, honest-to-god impressed.

He unknotted his tie and shoved his hands in his pockets, giving her a lazy, sexy grin. "Yeah, well. Never know when you might need a hedge."

She laughed. "Let's eat."

The washed down the cheeseburgers with a bottle of Veuve Clicquot that Clint had stashed up there earlier, passing it back and forth until it was gone. They talked, they told new stories and remembered old ones, they caught up on all they'd missed. He had stayed in Kansas for another month, but it had taken another two after that before they'd finally managed to be in the same city at the same time. They talked about the missions she'd been on and the projects Fury had been keeping him busy with and even a little about Stark's idea to form what he called their own "spinoff, world-saving (mostly) boy band."

"I'm not sure," Nat said, shaking her head. "It'd be nice to actually, you know, work together again. But _Stark_?"

Clint chuckled. "I know. Definitely pros and cons to that one. But it's not like we have to figure it out right now."

_We. _She liked the sound of that. Of all the things little Natalia Romanova imagined for herself one day, being part of a 'we' was never even remotely on the list. But somehow, tonight, with the cool breeze and smell of the jasmine in the air and Clint's face so close to hers, so couldn't really imagine anything else.

He stood up and held out his hand. "Dance with me?"

She did. They danced in the middle of that rooftop garden, her head tucked against his shoulder, his body moving with hers. There was no music at all, just the sound of his humming (and occasional singing) in her ear—some of his favorites, some of hers. She laughed and teased and told him not to stop.

He was still humming as he unzipped her dress and kissed his way down her length of her back. Still singing softly as he leaned down to slip the four-inch red heels off her feet and led her into a grove of shadowed grove of trees and proceeded to run his mouth across every exposed inch of her skin.

She helped get him out of that tux and he slid the Balenciaga off her shoulders and down past her hips and helped her step out of it. She waited until he'd (carefully) laid the gown over a nearby bench before pulling him down on the grass with her. There wasn't any fear this time, and there wasn't any hesitation. This time he was the one to hold her down—and she let him. Oh God, did she ever let him.

Afterwards, Clint draped his coat over both of them and pressed a sleepy kiss against her shoulder. "Too ... tired ... to ... move," he mumbled, drifting off, arms still wrapped around her. Nat stared up at the night sky, wide awake.

Clint had always been known as the more details-oriented member of their partnership—he was the trivia guy, the one who remembered patterns and strays and had perfect recall of every gun on the other end of a firefight and every specific of every mission they've ever done, how many episodes M*A*S*H ran for and the chronological order of all 27 of the Yankees' World Series. But he wasn't the only one who cared about stuff like that. Not by a long shot.

Four years, three months, and six days, she thought. From the first time she laid eyes on him until now. From enemies to ... not. From a split-second decision that changed both their lives. From partners to friends to so much more.

Four years, three months, six days. And totally worth the wait.

**...the end...**


End file.
